One Other Reason
by Middy Miles
Summary: Gobber never put much thought into his future–and why should he, when it had been planned out for him since childhood? But when another tribe seeks help from Berk, it challenges everything Gobber thought he knew about himself. Rated T for violence involving dragons.
1. Don't Worry About It

_**A/N: Since it was canonically confirmed, both in the second HTTYD movie and by director Dean Deblois, that Gobber is gay, I've wondered after his backstory. And because I like to believe that the alternate universe in which the movies exist would allow gay marriage, it seemed to me that Gobber's line, "This is why I never married. This, and one other reason" needed another explanation. And the story behind that explanation is more complex and enthralling than even Hiccup could have imagined from three simple words...**_

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><p>Gobber had never fancied himself a romantic.<p>

He didn't fantasize about taking any of the girls on walks along the rocky beaches or through the thick forests of the island. His heart didn't flutter at the idea of looking deep into their eyes or asking for their hands in marriage. It just wasn't something that seemed appealing to him.

And this was much to the chagrin of his father, who matched his son up with every passing shield-maiden and baker.

This afternoon's lucky lady was the waitress at their table in Meade Hall. Most of the village was gathered under the massive roof, celebrating a successful fall harvest.

Though the girl barely paid them any attention, running from table to table as quick as a dragon's flame, that didn't stop his father from insisting that she had her eye on him and that Gobber should walk her to her home later that evening.

He slapped his tankard on the table and licked his lips. By this time, he was drunk enough that his thoughts were slurred, but not his speech–_that_ would come when the sun went down. "Next time she comes by, offer her a drink. She'll like that."

Gobber looked sullenly at his own full mug of ale. "I can't offer her a drink, Dad. She's the one that _pours_ the drinks. And I'm sure she's seen enough alcohol just today to last her a lifetime."

His father narrowed his eyes, uncomprehending. "That's nonsense. All you have to do is..."

"Can we talk about something else? Please?" Gobber groaned and ran his hand through his hair. The movement lacked a certain emphasis, because he had to put his mug down first–it was a minor problem that came with only having one hand. He still hadn't gotten used to it, but he supposed a week wasn't long enough for that sort of thing. His stump was still wrapped up in bandages and healing, so it was extra worthless at the moment.

"You're _twenty years old_, Gobber. It's time for you to get married, start a family."

The idea turned his stomach. It really did.

"Son, you can't avoid it. Not anymore."

He was formulating a response that would do just that when a shout erupted from the mouth of the Hall: "Ships! Ships on the horizon! Report to battle positions!"

_Thank the Gods, _Gobber thought. He vaulted off the bench and toward the door without a backward glance.

To their credit, the Vikings sobered up and emptied the Hall with great speed. Gobber was caught in the swarm, but managed to extract himself just in time to grab hold of a rung on the ladder that led up to his watchtower. It was positioned to the west of the docks, and from the top he had a clear view of half of the island's beaches.

He'd been restricted to a non-combat position since the loss of his hand, and wouldn't be put back on the ground until it'd healed and he could wield weapons effectively again. He understood the chief's decision, because he would be a weakness if events turned for the worse, but that didn't mean he was happy about it.

After scrambling up the ladder–much harder now than it used to be–he pulled a short knife out of the waistband of his trousers and settled in to his watch position. The tower was actually quite spacious, at Gobber's current size. It was designed to fit even the biggest villager, which Gobber was not and probably would never be. And Vikings tended to grow up before they grew out, so he had a substantial amount of bulking up to do before he reached his full size.

He peered out at the docks, squinting his eyes to get a proper look at the ships. The outlines of four of them approached the island, and as they drew closer he realized the shape they were in. Broken planks and torn sails riddled their decks, and at least two of them had hull damage and sagged low into the water.

When they got within a few hundred yards, the lead ship raised a perfectly white flag of truce. Hardly a breeze had ruffled the island all day, so the cloth hung limp on the mast. But its message was clear.

They sought refuge on Berk.

The chief and a small party of villagers waited for them on the docks at the base of the cliff. All was silent as the ships floated to them. Three stopped one hundred yards away, but the last continued to the dock. A single plank was used to connect the ship to it, and an unarmed woman crossed to meet the chief of Berk.

They were too far away for Gobber to hear their words or read their body language, but he could at least tell that nothing terribly awful passed between them. After several minutes, the chief raised his arm in a closed fist, and the bugler followed his lead and gave the all-clear signal.

In his excitement, Gobber didn't bother with the ladder on the way down.

He bounded over the dirt paths through the forest and the village and wove down the ramps to the bottom as fast as his legs would take him. His natural curiosity would not be sated by anything other than immediate information.

Spotting Alvilda the Fierce, he slid to a stop and blurted, "What's going on?"

She turned to him, a small amount of surprise showing on her face. "These ships were attacked by dragons during their voyage," the master trainer said simply. "They are of an ally tribe, so we have offered them a place to stay until their ships are repaired. That is all I know at the moment."

Gobber nodded and approached the ship. Men and women, anywhere from Gobber's age to village elders, were already unloading themselves. They didn't have much to carry with them–either they'd planned for a short trip, or they'd lost a lot of it in the attack.

He stepped up to the plank, only a few yards long, and reached out his hand, grasping the forearm of the next villager to come ashore. With the added support, he could clamber onto the dock easily. Gobber accepted his thanks and reached out for the next person.

He continued to help the villagers onto shore, and as the ship cleared out, even more damage became evident. These ships probably wouldn't have lasted another day at sea.

As he squinted at a tribal emblem carved into the main mast, he took hold of another hand absently. It jerked suddenly, nearly tearing out of his grip.

The man let out a surprised yelp as he teetered on the plank, one foot thrown out to the side.

Managing to keep a hold on the man's wrist, Gobber saved him from a swim by pulling him forward onto the dock.

He fell toward Gobber, who put out his stump reflexively before realizing what an awful idea that was. He resigned himself instead to being knocked to his back on the wooden docks.

The man landed on him with a thud, and any air that may have been left in Gobber's lungs was pressed out. He saw stars for a few moments, and barely registered when the other man rolled off of his chest.

He felt like a fish, taking in great gulps of air until his vision cleared.

Next to him, the man pushed up to his feet, dusted off his knees, and held out his hand–first one and then the other, seeing the problem–to help Gobber up.

"I'm very sorry," he apologized in earnest as he pulled Gobber to his feet. "I'm as clumsy as a blind yak, I swear it."

"No need to apologize," replied Gobber with a wave of his stump.

He shook his head a little, ridding it of the lingering dizziness, and took a good look at the man.

Roughly Gobber's age, he had the kind of hair that was almost but not quite black, and blue eyes that jumped out of a dark-skinned face. He had a broad nose, but not as broad as the grin that seemed to sit naturally on his mouth. And he nearly towered over Gobber, but he was used to that. He was far from the tallest viking on Berk, and people from anywhere else wouldn't be much different.

As he finished his scrutiny, Gobber stuck out his hand. "I'm Gobber."

The man nodded and shook Gobber's hand firmly, saying after a split-second's hesitation: "You can call me Rack."

"Well, Rack," Gobber said, starting to walk up the dock to the village, "welcome to Berk. We haven't got much for fun things to do around here, unless you enjoy rocky beaches and dark forests."

Rack tilted his head as he walked beside Gobber, considering the idea. "That sounds like the most fun I've had in years, so long as I get a guided tour of these forest and beaches you speak of–the darker and the rockier the better."

"You'll have to find someone else for that," Gobber replied forlornly. "I haven't the time for anything other than what forge work I can still manage and my apprenticeship to the Dragon Training instructor." Gobber kicked a rock off the path, mourning his lack of free time.

A moment came and went in silence, and Gobber almost wondered if this man was reconsidering his choice to walk along with him. But then came a quiet request: "That sounds even better, if you don't mind my tagging along. I could even help, if you'd like."

Gobber looked over at Rack in disbelief. All of the sarcastic banter had dropped out of his voice. And to his surprise, the look on the man's face was nothing but genuine. He really meant it.

"I don't know how long my tribe will be here," Rack admitted, his voice back to normal. "A few months, maybe, and I–well, I want to make the best of the delay."

Gobber snorted. "'Making the best' of it doesn't really sound like hanging around with me, but you're welcome to it."

They walked in the would-be silence, if not for Rack's slow, easy whistling.

"I've dabbled in forge work," Rack continued after a bit. "So I'm curious to see how other tribes do things. And–Dragon Training, you said? How in Thor's name do you manage to train the beasts?"

A derisive laugh burst from him. "We don't train _them_!" He gasped through his chuckling. "That's impossible! No, we train the sixteenth years to _fight_ them! Three months long, it is, and this year's bunch has barely survived one," added Gobber with a mischievous quirk of the mouth.

"Brilliant," Rack agreed with a matching grin. "This 'Dragon Training' sounds fascinating. Where I live, parents teach their children the basics, and then they are apprenticed to masters of the weapons they excel at."

Gobber turned off the main road and onto the path that led to the forge. "And dare I ask what your weapon of choice is?" he asked with a sidelong glance.

"The sword," Rack shrugged. "Nothing exceptional, really, but I love the feel of it. So powerful and _right_. I had one that I'd forged for myself–the best I've ever held–but it was lost in the dragon attack. It was either lose the sword or lose my arm, so–"

The words had barely come out of his mouth before he clapped his hands over it and turned to Gobber with wide-eyed embarrassment. "I didn't mean–"

"Don't worry about it," interrupted Gobber, glancing down at the limb he'd momentarily forgotten was missing. Although battle scars such as his were a badge of honor among vikings, that didn't stop it from hurting.

Gobber pushed away the self pity with a wave of his stump. "It's nothing I don't already know about. Besides, it has its perks."

"Like what?" Rack frowned.

"The tavern master gives us money off drinks for every limb we've lost. Some people get all their drinks free–so I'm not that bad off, really."

When Rack didn't respond, Gobber looked over to him again. They'd turned to an angle that put the sun right above his head so that Gobber had to look almost straight into it. It made it impossible to read his new friend's face as they slowed to a stop right outside the forge.

"What is it?"

Rack shook his head. "I couldn't have picked a better person to assault in my first moments on Berk."

Gobber frowned at the sort-of compliment. "Um...thanks."

"Don't worry about it."

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><p><em><strong>AN: Thanks for reading, and please review to tell me what you thought! I'm updating at least every week (maybe sooner, depending) so keep an eye out for updates.**_


	2. Not Even a Little

_**A/N: Thanks for making the return trip to my story! Whether it was the "next chapter" button or following the link in an email reminder or whatever, I appreciate your dedication. So, your reward is the next chapter. I hope you enjoy :)**_

And so life went on. Every household on Berk was instructed to house at least one refugee, and more where space was available. Gobber and his parents lived in a home adjacent to the forge, so extra room was scarce.

But after a little adjustment, Rack fit in easily. Gobber gave up his bed in the house and slept in front of the forge fire instead, but he didn't mind in the least as the nights grew steadily colder. Their dining table was a bit more crowded than it used to be, but Rack provided a wealth of interesting conversation. Any surrender they made to accommodate their refugee was more than made up for, in one way or another. Gobber's father was especially appreciative, because he'd had to come out of retirement to take over the forge work when Gobber lost his arm, and now Rack could take care of most of it.

Rack was a simple addition, really, when it came down to it. No family had been on the boats with him when they arrived at Berk, so there was no obligation to take another person into their home. Though for a reason unknown to Gobber, that was a sore matter for Rack. He only gave dodgy answers on the few occasions when anyone asked about his family, so no one pressed.

They fell into the sort of routine that left room for things like sleeping and eating to be crammed in only on the edges. The pair split their time between working in the forge, helping to repair the boats, and assisting with Dragon Training.

Alvilda the Fierce, the training master, kept them both busy. Despite her years, Alvilda retained every bit of her fierceness, and for that Gobber admired her. He knew, though, that within only a handful of years he would take over as the training master, so he made great efforts to be as attentive and helpful as possible. Rack followed suit, and they were put to work with everything from moving targets to giving one-on-one weapons practice during the afternoon classes in the Arena.

A new addition to the island even since Gobber went through Dragon Training only five years previous, the Arena required constant rearranging. Gobber and Rack were late into the night setting up walls and barricades for the next day's training.

On a cloudy Friday evening two weeks after Rack's arrival, class had gotten out on time–a rare occurrence, to be sure. As the students piled out the gates, Gobber and Rack had dutifully begun dismantling the wooden barricades.

"How long is boat work going on today?" Gobber mused, sliding the weapons rack toward the large storage room. "We could get a few hours in before sundown."

Rack shrugged. He hefted a few planks and braces over his shoulder and said with a grunt: "I think I heard someone say a storm was moving in. If that's the case, they'll have stopped by now, won't they?"

From the other side of the circular Arena, Alvilda stood slowly from her trunk of smaller teaching supplies. "Aye, they started storm preparations after noontime. No one will be out much after dinner. If the two of you have something you want to do tonight, you best be off to it now."

Gobber shook his head as he walked over to help with another barricade. "I'll have time to check my snares after dinner, I think. We'll just be quick about it."

"No, you won't. Check them now," Alvilda ordered. "I'll finish up here, boys. Not that much left to do anyway."

Rack paused in his work, confused. "No, we'll stay."

Gobber watched with amusement as the gray-haired training master fixed Rack with one of the fierce looks that gave her her namesake. His friend didn't know yet to never argue with Alvilda the Fierce. "You'll go and check your traps," she told them, "and be safely indoors by the time that storm comes in. There's no sense in endangering yourselves to save me an hour of work. I'm not that old yet."

Rack's mouth opened as if he might argue, but then thought better of it. He finished with the barricade he was working on and echoed Gobber's "thank you" as they clambered out.

As they trekked down the path toward the village, Rack asked: "Will she be okay, doing that on her own?"

"Okay?" Gobber scoffed. "You _really_ haven't spent much time here. Don't worry about Alvilda; worry about anything in her way."

Rack offered a cautious "alright" by way of reply, and whistled jaunty tune as he and Gobber ducked off the trail and into the forest. They pushed through the low-hanging fir branches and thick underbrush. Clouds were already gathering around the island, preparing for a later onslaught of rain and hail, and they made the forest even darker than usual.

"How many snares do you have set?" Rack asked from over Gobber's shoulder.

"Twenty or so," replied Gobber, mapping them out in his head.

Rack took a deep, appreciative breath of the crisp air. "Alright, I'll accept this."

"What?" Gobber frowned.

"As a guided tour through the dark forest of the island of Berk! I told you I wanted one," he explained with a laugh.

Gobber rolled his eyes. "Whatever. We'll be done in time for dinner, don't you worry. I think my father is making yak and cabbage stew tonight."

Their stomachs rumbled in unison at the thought. Gobber's father, as bothersome as he could be about getting Gobber out of the house, was an amazing cook. It was one of the very few skills that Gobber had inherited from him.

They reached the first snare in the line, which turned up empty. They moved on quickly, the wind seeming to pick up speed with each step. The tops of the trees swirled in a near-frenzy, but at the forest floor it was still oddly quiet.

"I have to come up with the final test for Dragon Training this year," said Gobber, looking back at Rack. "There's still more than a month between now and the final, but–it has to be good, you know?"

Rack nodded his understanding. "Have you got any ideas?"

"Not a one. D'you think you'll still be around then?" Gobber knelt by another trap, noting that something had upset it but escaped. He reset the snare, but with difficulty. Everything was harder with one hand, and only the sheer force of his stubbornness made some things manageable.

When there wasn't an answer, Gobber turned full around to look at Rack. He was staring off into the forest, eyes unfocused.

"Rack?"

His friend blinked and shook his head. "Um–I don't know. I hope so."

Gobber used the trunk of a tree to help him stand up. "You really don't want to go home, do you?"

Rack bit his lip and inhaled deeply through his nose, as he always did when someone reminded him of home or his family. The first gusts of wind pushed through the trees, nudging the pair along. But they stood still.

"I won't be going home," Rack began, and the whole forest seemed to echo the deliberate way he took his next breath. "At least not to my tribe, anyway."

His shoulders drooped and he looked away, the weight of his confession making him weak. Gobber didn't speak for fear that anything he said would stop Rack from saying more. He hardly breathed.

"This was my farewell voyage. I–" he stopped and met Gobber's gaze, searching for words. As the clouds moved in over the island, it grew even darker in the forest, and even the patches of light were dim.

The dark splotches that were Rack's lips curled into a sour grin. "I'm getting married," he said in a tone that was exactly the opposite of what would be expected from his words.

"What?" Gobber demanded, shocked that he still knew how to speak.

"I'm getting married as part of a treaty, to the future chief of the Clamour tribe. I've only met her once, but I don't... I can't... love her."

A little part of Gobber's chest seemed to crumble. He wasn't entirely sure why, but this news–the finality of it–almost overwhelmed him as much as it seemed to Rack.

He swallowed it and asked: "Why you?"

Some of the despair seeped out of Rack's face, replaced by mild embarrassment. "They couldn't very well take my brother. He has to stay home and be chief there."

"Oh." Gobber took a moment to process that information. "_Oh._ You mean–you're the son of a chief?

"The _second_ son of a chief," Rack clarified. "Which isn't really good for anything."

Gobber's mind whirred with questions, and they would have exploded from him if he didn't keep a firm hold on them. "W–where are your parents, then? I'd have expected to see them, if they're sending you away."

"The chief and his wife went in the advance party." Rack turned away and began walking again. Gobber didn't miss the impersonal way in which he referred to his parents, realizing that his bitterness ran deep. "I assume they are already on Shatter Island and awaiting the rest of the party's arrival. We were expected three days ago."

"You're glad for that, aren't you?" Though he knew the answer, the question begged to be asked.

Rack knelt by the next snare instead of replying, disentangling a dead rabbit from it and passing it to Gobber, who stowed it in his knapsack for lack of a better place.

"Yes."

It was said so quickly and quietly that Gobber wondered if it was a trick of the ever-increasing wind. "But I know it only delays the inevitable. And–Gobber–I fear that with each day I spend here, I will dread having to leave even more."

In the darkness, the expression on Rack's face was entirely unreadable, but Gobber had a good idea of what it might look like. Just the way he _held _himself in that moment screamed complete desperation. He wanted _anything _but his own future.

His shoulders drooped even more, his breaths were hurried and his words were tight. The shadows swallowed him whole, hiding even the usual light in his blue eyes.

Gobber sidled a few steps forward and wrapped his arms around the taller man. He felt Rack's body tense before he gave in and embraced Gobber in turn. He leaned his head down on to Gobber's shoulder, which might have been awkward if not so necessary at the time.

"I'm sorry," he said, because there was nothing else to say.

"I don't even know why it bothers me so much," Rack yelled into the fabric of Gobber's tunic. He felt the wetness of tears on his shoulder. "Arranged marriages are nothing new to my tribe! I _knew_ this would happen, but now that it's so close I can't bear the idea of it!"

Gobber patted Rack's back with his stump, and grimaced as a sudden thought occurred to him. "Has something... changed recently? Is there someone who made you want to stay?"

"No," Racked breathed, confusion reading in his tone. "Oh, you mean–no, no, it hasn't."

He pulled away then, quickly, and adjusted the bottom of his tunic.

They checked the rest of the traps quietly and with haste, collecting three more rabbits and a squirrel, and had only just ducked under the awning of the forge when the rain began to fall like a volley of arrows. It announced its arrival with a great burst of lightning and a crash of thunder, loud enough to shake the ground.

Gobber watched it momentarily, allowing Rack to take the meat in the house. They'd skin it later, after dinner.

When Rack came back out into the forge, whistling tunelessly, Gobber was standing in the same place. He'd fully unwrapped his stump and tossed the bandages into the fresh fire a few feet away. He looked up from the wound as Rack approached. The whistling stopped.

"Thank you," Rack said quietly. He snagged a stack of clean cloth bandages and a bowl of salve from where Gobber kept them by the tools.

"Don't worry about it," came Gobber's newly automatic response as he held out his hand. "Um...for what, again?"

"I hadn't told anyone about all of–you know, about everything. It's good to have it off my chest." He gripped the supplies, and peered over at the ugly but healing sight that was Gobber's arm. He felt strangely exposed with another person looking at his stump. "Is that still sore?"

Gobber prodded at it a bit. It wasn't such an angry mess anymore; the swelling had gone down, and the edges seemed to have sealed together. Looking at it, though, he still couldn't grasp the idea that it was his own arm, and that it ended before it should have.

He looked away, out into the rain again. "Not as bad as a few days ago."

To Gobber's surprise, Rack dipped his hand in the bowl and scooped out a liberal dose of the salve. He raised his eyebrows and gestured for Gobber to extend his arm. He did so, reluctantly, and winced at the feeling of another's touch on his tender skin.

Rack stopped spreading the salve. "Am I–"

"No. It's just weird."

"Oh."

He finished in silence and had begun to wrap the wound when a thought occurred to Gobber. "Why have you not been involved in... in anything? Since you came here, I mean. Shouldn't you go to the council meetings or something, like your tribe representatives do?"

Rack paused to look up at Gobber, and a cross between a devious grin and a grimace fell over his face. The light from the fire and occasional strokes of lightning danced over his features. "I made a deal with them just before we came ashore. If I could be released from my station and identity for the duration of our stay on Berk, I would in turn provide my unconditional cooperation and faith in my marriage–indefinitely. My–ah–reluctance isn't exactly a secret, so they agreed."

Gobber blinked. "Some deal."

"Aye, you could say that."

Rack tied the bandage and let Gobber take his arm back. He'd done a marvelous job, much better than Gobber could have managed with only one clumsy hand. Gobber leaned against the wall by the fire. "Is Rack even your name, then?"

"What?" Rack wiped his hands on his vest. "Oh. Yes. Well–mostly."

Gobber threw up his arms in exasperation. "_Mostly?_"

His friend's peal of laughter filled the forge, and his shoulders shook with the intensity of it. "It's a nickname, Gobber. No need to take up arms."

"What's it short for, then?" countered Gobber, fixing Rack with a withering glare. It certainly wasn't _that _amusing.

"I'll tell you," Rack stalled, "but you have to promise not to laugh. Not even a little."

Gobber blinked at him and plastered an innocent look on his face. "Not even a little."

A look of great pain crossed Rack's features, and as he squeezed his eyes shut he muttered: "Miracle."

Gobber frowned. "Come again?"

"My name is short for 'Miracle'."

He considered that for a moment. And as a smile tickled the corners of his mouth, Rack's expression changed to one of utter betrayal. "I knew it. I really knew it. Here I thought that–"

"It's a nice name, really," Gobber interrupted. "I've heard worse, for certain, but I'm sure yours at least has a _story_ behind it. A bloke a few years older than me's named Goatfeet–now _that's _an awful name."

Rack's mouth worked for a little while before he could make words come out of it. "Uh–yeah, it is. And thanks–"

"Don't worry about it," he interrupted again, taking great pleasure in the mix of irritation and amusement the phrase brought his friend. "I just need to hear the story."

Rack leaned against the wall next to Gobber. "It's simple, really. I should have died as an infant–I was so sick, I'm told, that on the rare occasions I slept, I looked dead. Pale as morning fog, colder than winter itself–all that sort of blether. It was only by a miracle that I survived. I got the name because my parents are awfully sentimental people. Or, at least, they were back then."

Storm clouds as thick as the ones above Berk passed over Rack's eyes at having been reminded of his past. Gobber pressed his hand to Rack's forearm to steady him in the present and said: "Let's go have some dinner. I'm sure it's ready by now."

_**A/N: Thanks for reading, and please review to tell me what you think!**_


	3. Close, But Still Not It

_**A/N: Welcome back! *hands you a new chapter* Here you go.**_

At this time of year, as the coldest season crept toward Berk, the dragon raids always increased as the beasts stored up food for winter.

This year had been no different.

Several nights a week, the cry of alarm would be heard through rain or sleet or even a clear sky, and the tired but prepared villagers would roll out of their beds and reach for their weapons. For the most part, the attacks hadn't been bad enough to call the entire village to arms; only the warriors by trade would fend them off. The other vikings, though they knew very well how to fight the beasts, had duties to attend to the next morning that didn't mix well with sleep loss.

On the rare occasions that the dragons had mounted a large-scale attack, and everyone was called to fight, Rack proved an invaluable partner. His skill with a sword mesmerized Gobber, and the pair took down a number of dragons together. With their weapons of choice, they were unbeatable.

But on the quiet nights, the two enjoyed a different kind of companionship.

"You'll not get away this time, you sorry scoundrel!" bellowed Rack, weaving around the tables of the forge with practiced ease. Gobber could only barely keep ahead of him, but he had the advantage of twenty years of familiarity over the other man's two months. He knew his way around with just enough refinement to put distance between them.

He darted around the end of a table, and found himself facing Rack across the cluttered surface. It seemed a good moment to stop and catch their breath, which was hard to do through their laughter. It would cease for only a few moments, but when the two dared to look at each other, the insane giggles began again. It went on as such for several minutes, until they were mostly quiet.

But, sadly, all good things must come to an end.

His friend snatched up a dull, bent sword that they were supposed to have repaired last week, and pointed it at Gobber. Or, at least, he gave the illusion of it, but with the damaged blade it was hard to tell.

"That's not fair!" Gobber complained, and reached a poker out of the hot coals in the hearth. He made an experimental jab at Rack, who jumped out of the way.

"And _that_ is?" He eyed the glowing orange end with open unease.

Gobber considered that, pursed his lips, and nodded. "Aye, I'd say so."

And with that, he charged around the table with his weapon held high and a battle cry fit for war.

Rack danced away, leaving the sword to clatter on the table as tears of laughter streamed down his face. Gobber discarded the poker in a bucket of water and increased his speed of pursuit. When he got close enough to Rack, he leapt onto the man's back.

They fell to the floor in a wrestling heap.

One of Rack's palms pressed against his face, obscuring his vision and making it difficult to breathe. He reached around blindly to find a similar point of weakness on his friend, and used his stump to wrap the offending hand and pull it out of his face. Their legs engaged in their own wrestling match, kicking out every which way before getting tangled among the others.

Gobber laughed until he saw stars and gasped for breath, but could never be brought to surrender.

The creak of the old wooden door into the house interrupted their battle. They fell silent and still as Gobber's father called, "Gobber, are you–oh, uh–"

"Dad!" Gobber cried. He detached himself from Rack and stood hastily, heat rising to his face. Rack did the same, and they stood next to each other like two boys caught doing something they shouldn't.

Which they hadn't been. They were just messing around, having fun. Nothing to be embarrassed about.

Or so he told himself, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to even look at his father.

"What did you... what do you need?" he blustered.

His father blinked a few times, as though trying to remember what exactly he'd come in here for. "The Hoffersons want to know when you'll have their sword repaired. It should be done by now."

Gobber glanced furtively at the sword Rack had used to threaten him. In truth, they could have easily finished it by last week, but their boy was a constant nuisance in Dragon Training and Gobber had wanted to make him wait.

"It'll be done tomorrow," he promised. His father nodded and made a hasty retreat.

As the door closed behind him, Gobber and Rack looked at each other. All the childish laughter had passed, replaced by an uncomfortable silence that neither of them liked.

Rack quietly turned away and went to the fire, sitting down on the mat that made Gobber's bed and holding out his hands for warmth. Gobber stood there for a few seconds longer, until a draft of cold wind passed through and nudged him toward the fire.

He sat down just to Rack's left, but an invisible barrier kept space between them. His friend kept silent, not letting out even a whistle to ease the tension.

The fire crackled slowly, oblivious to the cold wind that tried to snuff it out. It cast a soft glow into the forge, but the places it didn't reach were dark and menacing, and made Gobber want to huddle closer to the fire.

Rack cleared his throat. "I should be going to bed," he announced, and moved to stand up. Gobber's hand closed around his forearm, pulling him back down.

"Don't go." He cringed at the desperate tone in his voice. "I won't be able to sleep for a few more hours, and... I don't really want to be alone."

The man settled back down next to him, closer than before. The firelight wove in lilting patterns across the dark skin of Rack's face. "What's troubling you?"

Gobber heaved out a breath, peeling his fingers away and holding them in his lap. "Where should I start?"

Rack, smartly, didn't reply.

"My arm should be better than it is." He looked down at his stump. "It should be ready to fit on a prosthetic by now, but it's still in bandages, and it throbs constantly."

Rack sighed deeply. "It is healing, no matter how slowly. You know that as well as I. So what is really bothering you, Gobber?" He leaned in a little bit, putting their faces nearly level, but Gobber didn't look up.

"The final test for Dragon Training is in two days, and I don't know if what I've come up with is sufficient, or if it's too much, or..."

"Closer, but still not it. I know you better than that, Gobber." The irritation in his tone held enough force that it made Gobber look up. Something in Rack's eyes made his stomach twist into a knot, and he realized with new clarity the reason for his anxiety. "Save both of us some time and tell me the truth–"

"You're leaving!" he burst, and had to bite his lip to keep it from wobbling. "The repairs will be done before the week is out, and then you'll be gone, and I'll still be here."

He wasn't sure what Rack had expected, but that wasn't it. Shock showed clearly on his face, forehead creased and mouth hanging slightly open. "There it is," he muttered, and Gobber realized that the same concern plagued his friend.

Neither of them could speak, and though it was hard for each to look at the other, their gazes were locked.

Out in the open, the reality of it seemed even more terrifying. Because once Rack was gone, he was never coming back. Their lives would resume just as they had been before, and these two months would be nothing more than a happy dream.

Rack closed his eyes and took a shallow breath, pressing his lips together until they paled around the edges. Gobber watched him silently, trying to commit every inch of him to memory. Then he leaned his head over onto Rack's shoulder, closing his own eyes. Memory wasn't entirely dependent on sight, after all.

He felt Rack shift as he put his arm around Gobber, pulling them closer together. He traced patterns on the skin of Gobber's left arm, just above the bandages, and it sent a pleasant chill up his spine. This was nice–amazing, even, and he wanted to drown in that moment for all of eternity.

But, sadly, all good things must come to an end.


	4. Do You Hear That?

_**A/N: Here's a chapter for you! Savor it while you can, because there's only one more... *evil laugh***_

This late at night, it should have been too dark to see his hand in front of his face, but the full moon and a clear sky provided enough light that they hadn't bothered with a torch. Their arms had been too full of weapons and traps to carry one, in any case. The occasional breeze wandered through the forest, and the stubborn bugs that stuck around for the cold season buzzed and croaked.

In all, it was the perfect night to set up a test.

The final was this: the top two students–Stoick, the future chief, and his brother Spitelout–would begin at a beach on one side of the island, and have to overcome obstacles, traps, and distractions on their path to the arena on the other. The student who arrived at the arena first would claim the honor of killing the feral Nadder that waited for them there.

It had seemed like a better idea before they'd had to prepare it. They had snares to set, mud pits to construct, and a bridge to block off, all before sunrise. They could have started yesterday, but they wanted it to be a surprise.

So they snuck out in the dead of night, only Alvilda aware that they were gone.

Their breaths puffed out in a ghostly fog that nearly froze midair. The cold might have bothered them more if they weren't in constant motion, the work hard enough to make them sweat through it. They competed to see who could better hide their snares, or dig better mud pits. They hid weapons about, too, for the students to find and use in the Arena, and the small cart they'd brought along to carry everything was all but empty by the time they made it to the bridge.

The only supplies they had left were a small hammer, a few nails, and a length of rope. These they would use to barricade the bridge and force the competitors to find a different way across the stream.

As they drew to the bridge, the rustling of the trees and the other chatters of the forest fell away. Neither Rack nor Gobber noticed, though, and they continued to carry on the conversations that had kept their mouths as busy as their hands for the last few hours.

"And by heating the metal that way, the steel is harder after cooling."

Gobber nodded appreciatively. "I'll have to try that. I have... do you hear that?"

"No. I don't hear anything." Rack paused mid step, the rope strung between his hands and the beginning of a whistle caught between his teeth.

Gobber's stomach sank like a rock. "That's what I was afraid of. Odin, help us."

The prayer barely left his lips before a wave of heat and light burst from the forest to their left. He turned to look at it full on as desperation crept up his throat, and he nearly crumbled to his knees at the sight.

A Monstrous Nightmare. A big one, that had already lit itself on fire to intimidate them.

Pushing down cold dread, Gobber assessed their situation. They were weaponless–the only possibility was the hammer, located in the cart closer to the dragon than it was to them–and alone. He almost considered baring his one fist and fighting it that way, but he knew that would get them killed faster than jumping off a cliff.

So he did the only logical thing.

Gobber fisted the back of a stunned Rack's shirt and pulled him away, shouting "_Run!_" as he broke into a dead sprint. They ran like hell in the opposite direction, tearing along the stream bed as loose rock slid out from under their feet and nearby tree branches whipped their arms and faces.

It wasn't enough.

The dragon gained on them easily, and with not even a gurgle for a warning fired at them from behind.

Rack fell to the ground with an agonized cry, and all the fire around them showed his burns with awful clarity. The spray of fire had grazed his right side, from his ear all the way down to his knee. Half of his shirt and part of his trousers were burned away, revealing angry red and blackened skin underneath. Gobber could almost hear the sizzling heat trapped on his body.

There was no way he could run any farther. And Gobber could never leave Rack here alone.

So this was where it ended, then.

While the Nightmare readied itself for another attack, Gobber dragged Rack, moaning and limp, down to the cold, wet mud at the riverbank on their left. Frost was already collecting in it, but he'd probably prefer that to the patch of scorched ground he had been laying on. Knowing there was nothing else to do, Gobber scrambled back up to the forest edge.

He knelt, keeping his eyes on the dragon as he picked up a fallen branch. Stood and squared himself between the dragon and the man behind him. Took a single glance back at Rack to steel his nerves. Then he turned back around to face another reality, this one more dangerous but far easier to deal with.

Fighting dragons was easy.

Falling in love with a man betrothed to someone else was another matter entirely.

With a battle cry worthy of the Gods' own ears, Gobber rushed the dragon. It followed suit, and the distance between them fell away. A gurgling noise gave him enough warning that he could roll out of the way of the molten fire it spat at him. He went to the left, ducking behind a tree to get himself even closer to the dragon before putting himself directly in the line of fire again.

The dragon growled deep in its throat, angry at having lost sight of Gobber. It shot a blast in his general direction, but by then he'd already shuffled farther forward. If he could exhaust its fire reserves, he might have a chance.

He charged at it again, this time coming close enough to bash at it with his stick, but it broke after just two hits. The Nightmare caught the rest in its jaws, tearing it out of his grip. He danced out of the way of yet another burst of fire.

Trees all around him creaked and groaned as flames licked their trunks, trying to pull them down. But they were stubborn trees that stood as straight and tall as ever.

Gobber tucked and rolled, using his momentum to land a punch on the dragon's long throat. It roared and coughed out sparks as Gobber brought his arm back for another hit–he would've been faster with another hand to do damage, but that wasn't the case.

As it was, his punch did no damage at all because it never connected with the dragon's flesh. It whipped its head around, jaws open and lips pulled back to show wicked teeth.

The points of which sunk into the end of Gobber's stump. Realizing its success, the dragon shook its head and Gobber with it. He tore the bandages on his arm, trying to free himself.

A rock flew out of nowhere and collided with the dragon's shoulder.

The distraction gave Gobber enough time to rip his arm free and fall back out of the way. He scrambled backward and saw Rack in the moonlight, barely able to stand and covered in burns, with another rock pulled back to throw. He released, but this throw was weaker, and fell a good yard short of the dragon.

Rack's eyes met Gobber's, and the smallest flicker of humor showed there. "Don't worry about it," he croaked as his legs gave out. He crumpled to the ground gracelessly.

The dragon spat out Gobber's bandages and focused in on its new attacker. It advanced at Rack even though he was now nothing more than a motionless heap.

Gobber struggled to his feet, scraping hand and bared stump on the rough ground to gain purchase, and launched himself toward them. With the Nightmare's attention on Rack, Gobber took the opportunity to wrap himself around the dragon's neck. He tried to choke it out with his left arm and used his hand to scratch at anything he could find. Eyes, nose, anything.

The dragon bucked underneath Gobber and scuttled backward, leaving Rack forgotten on the ground. He pleaded with the gods–please, please, oh, please–that he was only unconscious.

Before Gobber could do any real damage to the dragon, he felt its skin heat up and the scales become tacky with accelerant mucus. He dropped off the dragon's neck just as it burst into flames. Some of it caught on his tunic, but he extinguished it in rolling away.

Gobber allowed himself a few seconds to lay on the ground. Burn and aches coated every inch of his body. He was torn, and bleeding, and all the logic in his brain told him that he should give up, run for his life, save himself. Part of him even wondered if that's what Rack would want him to do.

But he hadn't the strength of mind or body to do anything other than grasp another branch and push to his feet. It was still dark outside, but the dragon glowed like the embers of a fire.

_Think_, Gobber told himself. _Think. _Brute force wouldn't get him or Rack through this alive. He searched his brain for anything about Nightmares that might be useful. He knew everything about dragons, nearly had the Dragon Manual memorized, had taught Training for years, and yet–

That was it.

Monstrous Nightmares had an odd mutation. To make the extra space necessary to form their special fire, they had one less pair of ribs than most dragons. At the right angle, a blade could slice through the gas sacks and into the vital organs, killing a dragon in moments. With a sword, it would have been an easy kill. With a stick–maybe not. But he had to try.

Gobber formulated a plan. It was rash, stupid, and farther than a long shot, but it was his only hope.

"Hey, fish face!" he taunted. "You're not so tough. I could kill you with no hands at all. But, luckily, I've got one right here that has your death written all over it." The words were more for his sake, but the dragon focused in on the new noise with slitted eyes. It shuffled forward, growling deep in its throat, and spat out fire. Gobber sidestepped, and as the dragon investigated whether he'd been burned to a crisp, he broke into a run.

Instead of heading straight for the dragon, he took a semi-circular route, and as he put on a last burst of speed, he dropped to the ground and skidded under its belly. The frosted dirt was unforgiving as it scraped the skin off his legs even through his trousers, and there wasn't nearly enough room underneath the dragon to move comfortably. The heat difference between the ground and the dragon's hide was absurd, burning hot and freezing cold at the same time. Mixed with the throbbing pain that coated him like a blanket, Gobber's senses could barely keep track of it all.

At this point, Gobber calculated, there were fourteen ways his plan could go wrong–a rough, optimistic estimate–and exactly one way for it to go right. But, oddly enough, he wasn't afraid. Not even a little. If any fear hid within him, it was totally overwhelmed by the desire to protect the man he loved.

He ground to a stop under the dragon's belly, and a desperate search for the telltale soft spot yielded success. He pushed his back against the ground for all the power he could muster as he drove the stick into its flesh.

The weapon sunk into the dragon's body with ugly efficiency, and the Nightmare screamed. It collapsed on top of him, crushing Gobber with its bulk. Its wings flailed and carried the screeching dragon mostly off of him. But his feet were trapped, and he struggled to pull himself free. With each passing moment, the claws on the dragon's feet and wings slashed through the air, and he knew it was only matter of time before they slashed _him_.

Random bursts of fire lit the night, frequent enough that Gobber was sure it had run itself out by the time he wrenched his left foot free. He kicked out into the dragon's side, using it as leverage to extricate his second foot.

Its head whipped around with frenzied speed, and the dragon's massive jaws clamped down on Gobber's lower leg. He cried out, surprised more than in pain at that point, and curled up to pry at the dragon's head with his hand. He pushed against it, but that only succeeded in pressing the teeth through his boot and deep into his flesh.

Okay. It hurt now.

He bashed at the dragon, his stump and his hand leaving bloody smears wherever they connected–whether it belonged to him or the dragon, he wasn't sure. Probably both.

"Let go of me!" he yelled at it, but of course the dragon wasn't paying any attention. He'd resigned by now that his plan had failed to do anything more than anger the dragon, and maybe handicap it.

Now all three of his other limbs fought to liberate him, but he was losing energy fast. The cold air seeped it from him; every cut and bruise took its share. He weakened by the second.

And he lost all hope when he the heat rose up in the dragon's throat.

"No, no, _no!_" Angry tears stung his eyes. He gave one last, empty effort to break free before the fire came, but focused mostly on bracing himself for the pain.

When it came, it paralyzed him. The fiery agony that consumed his foot eclipsed his vision, and all control over his body disintegrated. It shuddered and spasmed without reason, and when the dragon let go of whatever was left of him he resumed his anguish alone on the ground.

At some point, he must have rolled down the riverbank, because a harsh coldness overtook him. Maybe the dragon had decided to leave them alone, because it didn't bother him as he stilled, exhausted and tortured.

A grim smile plucked at Gobber's lips. "How's that for a walk along the beach?" he muttered to Rack, lying somewhere along the riverbank.

Of all his wounds and worries, the only thing he felt when he slipped into unconsciousness was relief.


	5. One Other Reason

_**A/N: I'm an awful person. I've had this done for more than a month and I forgot to post it. I'm sorry. This is the conclusion to this short story, so I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. **_

Alvilda found them just after dawn.

Gobber had floated in and out of delirium in the hour or so before their discovery, and was in one of his more lucid states when Alvilda stumbled over them.

He realized their luck in being attacked by the bridge–anywhere else and they may never have been found. As it was, Alvilda ran back to the village for help; she couldn't carry two grown men on her own.

When they arrived, Gobber was unconscious again.

Later, he was told that they were rushed immediately to the healer, who treated them both for serious wounds and delivered a less-than optimistic prognosis. Given their situation, they were lucky to still be alive. The dragon, on the other hand, lay dead mere yards away from where Gobber had fallen, with a fatal wound to the chest caused by nothing more than a tree branch.

They both needed a lot of sleep to aid their healing, but neither was entirely comatose after the first day or so. Oddly enough, Gobber was almost grateful for what had happened.

It meant that Rack could not leave until he'd healed.

At first, Gobber thought it might be a good idea to start forgetting how he felt, because it would only end in sorrow, but he found it to be impossible. Spending every moment just feet away from Rack proved too powerful to deny, and he gave up in a matter of days.

After a week or so, the healer gave Rack permission to walk about the cabin, but Gobber was still bedridden–as he would be for some time. Rarely did someone walk so soon after losing their leg.

Rack never wandered far, choosing to spend most of his time at the edge of Gobber's bed.

"We're quite the sight, aren't we?" Rack mused, picking at the edge of one of his bandages. They nearly covered the right side of his body, hiding the rawness that passed for his skin with soft whiteness instead. The burns continued partially up the side of his face, ending just below his ear. They gnarled the otherwise smooth brownness of his skin with an angry red. Bandages there never stayed on for long, so the healer told him to apply salve every hour or so and left it at that.

"Aye," replied Gobber. "But I don't mind."

Rack's hand slid into Gobber's, their fingers weaving together easily. "Neither do I. Except for the burns; I could do without those."

Gobber brought their entwined hands to his lips, and pressed a soft kiss onto Rack's knuckles. "And I could do with two more limbs, but we can't have everything."

His words teased a quiet chuckle out of Rack, whose head tilted back to touch the wall behind him. They stayed like that, Gobber listening in contentment as Rack whistled a slow, sad dirge. He traced little patterns on Rack's knuckles, delighting in how the shivers it gave him travelled into the usually steady sound of his whistle.

It was moments like these that hurt the most for Gobber. The moments that taunted him with everything he knew would never be.

Because as soon as the healer gave his word, Rack's tribe would send off. Two of the ships would return to their island, in the case that the advance party had returned home, and the other two would go ahead to Shatter island, where Rack's future waited. They avoided the subject whenever possible, but it had a bad habit of surfacing every now and then.

Rack cleared his throat, fixing his eyes on their hands. "Gobber, promise me something."

"Anything."

"Don't–don't marry someone, if you don't love them."

Gobber blinked, unsure of what to say. Rack squeezed his hand tighter.

"Because I can't. I don't get to choose, so you have to. Please."

He swallowed hard, finally finding his words.

"But what if I already chose you?"

Rack's eyes closed, the rest of his face crunching around them. A line of water welled around their edges, and leaked out to dribble down his face before his eyes opened again.

"Don't say that, Gobber." He turned away and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"It's the truth. And I swear, Rack, that I will never marry anyone who is not you."

He fell heavily onto Gobber's shoulder, burying the unburned half of his face into the fabric there. "You don't know that."

"Yes I do," Gobber said with absolute certainty. "Because no one will ever be you. No one will ever have your eyes, and I don't want any eyes but yours to ever look at me the way yours do. There will never be another with your mouth, to talk to me like you do and to make me want to kiss you so badly every time–"

By now, tears traced steady lines down both of their faces, and Gobber tasted the saltiness of them as Rack's lips pressed against his own.

It was a stolen kiss, chaste as young love but passionate as true romance. Though Gobber ached to wrap his arms around Rack, run his fingers through his hair, feel the sheer _realness _of him, he didn't. Their wounds kept them apart, their only points of contact their lips and their laced fingers.

He felt Rack's grimace as he raised his other arm enough to cup his hand around Gobber's chin, tilting his head up more toward his own.

The kiss lasted mere moments–oh, _gods,_ he wanted it to last forever–and when they pulled apart neither of them spoke. Rack didn't look at him, and when his lips parted he said quietly: "I love you. Thank you."

A wry smile tugged at Gobber's mouth.

"Don't worry about it."

* * *

><p>He left three days later.<p>

Gobber had forgotten what it was like not to have someone by his side constantly, and now often found himself making a remark to no one. It all seemed too quiet without the sound of Rack's easy whistling to fill the silence.

Everything just seemed empty without the refugees on Berk.

The tables of Meade Hall were all but barren in the evenings, and only subdued conversation floated through the cavernous space. Villagers found themselves with idle time that would have been otherwise spent on boat work. His father's grumbles about forge work lacked any particular conviction.

Even his search to find a wife for Gobber slowed to a stop, as if he knew the pain Gobber felt over Rack's loss. He would occasionally point out someone–man or woman–raise his eyebrows and say, "That one's nice." But upon Gobber's shake of the head would always drop the subject.

As months passed, his wounds healed as entirely as they ever truly would, and he learned how to function with pieces of himself missing. Some days he would still find himself searching for the speck of ships on the horizon, as though his love would reappear to fill the void in his chest.

As years passed, even that dulled to the occasional lonely night by the forge fire, with the faint reminiscence of hot-poker tag and wrestling matches, of late nights in the Arena and long hours of boat work.

He found other things to occupy his time, of course, and at some point he realized that despite his heart being somewhere else in the world, he had found happiness in his life. He became the new chief's closest advisor, and taught Dragon Training every summer without fail for thirty years until the island of Berk changed for good. After that, he adapted to the new way of life easily, and went months at a time without thinking of Rack.

But in an icy cavern, as Stoick was reunited with Valka, his love, Gobber couldn't help but be reminded of his own separation, and leaned in toward Hiccup's ear.

"This is why I never married," he muttered, even managing a knowing smile. "This, and _one other reason._"

_**A/N: Please leave a review and tell me what you think :)**_


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